This Moment

Inspired by- Eavan Boland

A balcony.
Brewed tea. Things are getting ready.

a neighbour folds her dried out clothes.
Another vendor strolls across the streets.
Oranges and papayas , he screams.

Stars and moon,
things become raw at night.
Opaque tunes of the clouds distorting,

things pause as the sun sets in.
This moment,
a women walks in the kitchen
to get things ready for dinner.

A bizzare hustle,
Fruits ripening,
An old painting getting chipped.
This moment.

---

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Falling Dream

I am quiet too often
like the empty hallways,
humming a song already forgotten
with a tilting toe towards the sun
a sigh: pink fingers dipped in pain
a sigh: pink fingers dipped in hallucination
   there is a staircase now
falling beneath my parting head
half towards left,
            half towards right
days whistling on sea waves
about my country in flames,
about my city in illusions

watching a cloud
things fall under the feet now
a complete loss of sense 
tiny leaflets fluttering

green songs that reflect nothing.
the survival becomes a pungent smell often
with absent glares
and a blue sea that is a part of my dream.

My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-

Crimson Skins- US

Crimson Skins- India
Pothi- https://store.pothi.com/book/devika-mathur-crimson-skins/

lady in white

 

I know of a lady in white
with a mouth full of promises,
spreading a nocturnal path of flowers,
like a longed kiss above the eye,
a lady that slips in my chest,
within the small rim of my fist,
a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist.
a lady with a potato peel,
with cardigans and wool on her mahogany table,
entangled like dust in her bun,
mouth covered with layers of smiles and powder,
a moment of purple sanity,
a lady in white that lives in a suburban city,
with marigolds just in her eyes.
—————————————————————

Find my published collection Crimson Skins worldwide.

Crimson Skins Amazon US

Crimson Skins Amazon India

Crimson Skins Book Depository

Crimson Skins Bookswagon

You can read my collection on Barnes & Noble , too.

Releasing this 2020- Crimson Skins

I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.

I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indie Blu(e) Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.

 

Thank you for always reading and supporting me.

Devika

My newsletter- Tiny Letter

Dear all,

Thank you for always reading my work on WordPress. My love for you all will always be huge. Though it would mean a lot if you can subscribe to my tiny letter newsletter. I would be sharing some beautifully curated poetry of some great poets/ articles/ artworks and it shall also have insights into my work at your mailbox.

You won’t be disappointed.

You just have to subscribe to the mailbox and you can enjoy different poetries while sipping on your favourite tea and maybe anytime you wish to read. I still will be hanging onto my this platform along with my Instagram, twitter handle.

https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

thanks.

On Dreams

Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.

Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.

You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.

                       It does not matter
                           anymore
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.

There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.

It does not matter.

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A blank slate

I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
separating recklessly.

Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.

I sink
thinking about the old moments
where conversations were simple
conversations made of pink wool
of memories and hands.

These days i imagine a single strand of grass
infused into the tunnel of my thin skin
to sit and spread a smell that wipes
things so small
things full of cold elements.

The body is driven mad
by the sight of people now
failing to comprehend the existence of things so bright.

I have a body now
that refuses to walk
a body so cold
a lifeless abstract piece of art.

(written after all that is happening around the world. I feel terrible.)

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Oranges

There is a way to eat fruits.
The bites, cuts, peeling discloses a lot about the process,
about manifestations, prayers.

The layers are a cryptic code,
defining a particular gender.
What do you name Oranges?
A blossom of Goddess or the sweat of a man?

The tender skin hides the juices
of fervor and desires

step 1: Do not gulp it easily, it might choke you.
Step 2: Observe the underlying dots & thickness of the zest.

Step 3: Divide it into a group for easy naked observation.
Step 4: Rub the Albedo.
Step 5: Open the part and drink the nectar.
( Do not hesitate to sprinkle the skin on the face)

Splash,
the flavoring chemicals begin to revolve
& this is how it falls inside your mouth
with a sky of teak words,
creating lust with teeth.

There is a way to eat Oranges
with harmony dancing.

---

Inspire after reading Figs- D.H Lawrence

I also curate poetry newsletters-  https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

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A prayer to hope

Cities left like empty vases,
soundless minds,
a spot once full
looks ghastly.

Run, run, run
to the places unknown
hiding beneath the carcass of nature,

Sit, observe and run
to the places that are quiet now.

Learn from the two-fold mystery of God,
they do it like a yard spinning.
Do not fear,
this pool is a rubber band,
the more you stretch, the more it shall get you.

Clench the fist of the thing you see next now,
yes, a rope,
a pill,
a prayer,
but do not stop.
you have to live like a sussurous hymn.

---

Wrote after the super cyclone- Amphan.

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How bad is my poetry?

I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
No.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.

I announce I am rather happy
but then
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic

But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
and then
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
collapsing
exhilarating
dying
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.

Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.